


Dean Winchester's Mistress

by supernaturalwhovian



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, High School Girl - Freeform, High School Sam, Literature, Poetry, Shakespeare, Sonnets, high school Dean, relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 19:42:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2241072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supernaturalwhovian/pseuds/supernaturalwhovian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was only one time that Dean Winchester enjoyed Shakespeare.</p><p>Or poetry, or schoolwork, for that matter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dean Winchester's Mistress

**Shakespeare Sonnet 130**   
_“My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun  
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;  
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;  
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.  
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white  
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;  
And in some perfumes is there more delight  
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.  
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know  
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;  
I grant I never saw a goddess go;  
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:  
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare  
As any she belied with false compare.”_

 

Dean sighed as he walked into the library, raising his eyebrows as he dropped into a plastic chair and propped his feet up on the round, wooden table. Apparently, he was failing literature. Quite frankly, he didn't care, but neither of the boys had seen or heard from John Winchester in weeks. Dean didn't have the energy to rebel against the teachers and principal, though admitting that to himself nearly made him squirm.  
So he'd just have to give his tutor hell instead, he decided.  
“Dean Winchester?” The voice was high like tinkling bells, and when he glanced up, the witty retort died in his throat.   
He had been prepared for some nerdy girl who wore sweater and skirt sets, but instead he was greeted by the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Normally good looks didn't affect him—he, himself, was handsome, and he knew it—but this girl was like an angel, with curly hair that fell to beneath her chest and the prettiest smile he'd ever seen.   
“Yes,” he finally managed to croak out, and she gave a shy smile as she sat down and put her book bag on the floor, the kind of smile that told him she didn't know she was perfect. That innocence only made her more attractive to him.   
“Elizabethan literature isn't your strong point, huh?” When she looked down, a lock of her hair fell in front of her face. Dean had to fight with all the self control that he had not to reach out and tuck it back behind her ear.   
“Shakespeare's boring.” He didn't know what was wrong with him. Where had all of his snide remarks gone, his best pick up lines? He had a whole list of them somewhere in his brain, but it had disappeared like this girl had taken an eraser to all of it.   
She giggled, glancing up at him and meeting his eyes. He couldn't look away. “Shakespeare,” she said, an eyebrow raised, “is my favorite.”  
“I can't even understand what the hell he's talking about half the time. Too much ye olden speake.” There we go. It was coming back to him now.  
She snorted, a high pitched giggle, and Dean's own lips turned up. What was his problem today?   
“Well, you just have to break it down line by line. What are you working on now in class?” There was this beautiful tilt to her chin, and she was looking at him with a bright curiosity that made him want to lay everything about himself out on the table.  
“Sonnets,” he said, having to force his gaze away and down to the textbook.   
He was looking at a textbook instead of a drop dead gorgeous girl. He had lost his spine. He might kill himself later.  
“I love the sonnets!” She clapped her hands gleefully, a sparkle in her eyes. Evidently at getting to work on the sonnets. Working on them with Dean seemed to add a little to her cheer—at least, he hoped so, secretly crossing his fingers a little.  
“We're analyzing the second now.” He sneaked a glance at her beautiful face. She had dimples.  
He loved dimples.  
“Well, like I said. You just separate it line by line and try to figure it out. When forty winters shall besiege thy brow: when forty years will go by and leave deep wrinkles in your forehead.”   
He glanced up at her. She wasn't looking at the textbook—she was reciting from memory.  
And he listened in amazement as she transformed Ye Olde Speake Shakespeare, which bored him to death, into something he could laugh at, something that made him smile or made him sad. Something that enticed him.  
Though he didn't know if it was the poetry itself or the way her beautiful lips moved.

 

He tapped his pencil on his desk anxiously as he awaited his presentation. This one he had actually put effort in, though Sam had initially asked what had possessed him. He had been up all night. Now he was rubbing at dark circles underneath his tired, heavy eyes, but it was worth it. It was so worth it.  
The classroom door quietly opened, and in walked the most beautiful girl Dean had ever laid his eyes on, right as the teacher called him up. He smiled. Sam had impeccable timing—Dean had promised to not to ask him for help with his homework for a week in exchange for getting her here.  
Dean stepped up in front of the class, clasped his hands behind his back, and smiled. The teacher looked initially shocked Dean wasn't reading it from a paper, and then a little afraid that Dean's project might not have anything to do with Shakespeare.  
Dean met her eyes. He didn't look at anyone else.  
“I have come to the conclusion, through my analysis,” he announced, cocking an eyebrow, “that Shakespeare is, in fact, stupid. And I don't know why he had to make all his poems so damn hard to understand.”  
The teacher sighed, putting his face in his hands as the class laughed.  
“But,” Dean casually continued, “there are some thoughts, and feelings, that he accurately describes. If you can freakin' translate it.”   
He took a deep breath then, trying to steady his nerves. He didn't know if he would actually remember all of it.  
“Oh, what is the source of this strong power you have? It controls my affections, despite your inadequacies. I don't believe my eyes really see things this way, until I get so confused I don't even know if daylight's bright.”  
He continued, the whole Dean-ified sonnet spilling out, and it was only at the end that he realized he didn't have a clue whether she was impressed or upset or...  
His eyes fell on her and she was smiling. It was the kind of smile that he had seen so many times, he knew he had won her over.   
Dean quickly headed to the back of the room, wrapping his arm around her waist and grinning back at the class.  
“See ya, suckers!” He saluted them before grabbing her hand and pulling her out. They ran down the halls, her laughter pealing. It bounced off the walls to reach Dean's ears again, only more beautiful the second time.   
And later when he was kissing her, she whispered the real lines of sonnet 150 into his lips, his hair, his neck, his shoulders, his cheek. 

_“O from what pow'r hast thou this pow'rful might,  
With insufficiency my heart to sway,  
To make me give the lie to my true sight,  
And swear that brightness doth not grace the day?  
Whence hast thou this becoming of things ill,  
That in the very refuse of thy deeds  
There is such strength and warrantise of skill  
That in my mind thy worst all best exceeds?  
Who taught thee how to make me love thee more,  
The more I hear and see just cause of hate?  
O, though I love what others do abhor,  
With others thou shouldst not abhor my state.  
If thy unworthiness raised love in me,  
More worthy I to be beloved of thee.”_


End file.
